Irritation
by The.Dust.Of.Jack
Summary: John is silent for once as Sherlock sets himself on a one-day path of self destruction.


Title: Irritation  
Pairing: Umm…nope, none.  
Rating: Older teens.  
Warning: Character death. But, shh! You didn't hear it from me. Is a surprise.  
Word Count: 2,159 which is weird. Last time I checked it was 1,267. And the time before that it was 386 XD  
Disclaimer: Not the BBC

Summary: John is silent for once as Sherlock sets himself on a one-day path of self destruction.

A/N: Eh. Murderous me. Gerroverit. Was supposed to be the 221B challenge (221 words, ends with one with a B), but it failed completely. I think I did what… over 10 times the amount I was meant to. Ah, who cares about maths. =)

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221B Baker Street was never silent. Mrs Hudson could be heard bustling around downstairs at mostly all hours – her television on a high volume so to avoid her missing anything 'important' from her favourite daytime TV shows as she scurried around her kitchen, cooking and cleaning up at the same time, humming a little song to herself and generally being the same cheerful, batty, completely insane woman whom Sherlock had always known her to be. Sherlock himself was sitting on the floor, banging his head merrily against the wall, being just as noisy as Mrs Hudson but without doing quite so much to achieve it.

He was in his dressing gown as he had been all day, and his pyjamas which don't quite fit him any more. The trousers didn't cover his ankles, and one of the sleeves of his top had been torn by catching it on god only knows what, but Sherlock really doesn't care anymore. It's not relevant and pales in comparison to what is truly important, and what is truly important would be the reason why he's caving in his skull against the wall in the first place.

_The wall had it coming._

Oh, but John hadn't, no, no he hadn't at all, and it was wrong of Sherlock to do such a thing to him – not after all the things he could have done to prevent it, and all the things that John has done for Sherlock in the past.

Sherlock phone buzzed, and it was Lestrade with a new, _very important _case, hint – which translated, of course, as 'come down now'. But Sherlock already knew about the case and what it entailed and had solved it without thinking about it, because it was Sherlock who had committed it. As much as he didn't like to think about it, he would freely admit to himself that it is he who is the reason why John Watson has been found washed up on the river bank by some squeamish American tourists, because Sherlock couldn't handle the boredom, and boredom has never distinguished friend from foe. The phone buzzed a few more times before Sherlock threw it into the wall opposite him, aiming for the mirror but coming short, hitting the skirting board instead. Either way, though, it served to a higher purpose – namely, smashing the phone to bits.

Mrs Hudson came up soon after to ask what he was doing to make all that dreadful noise, you best not be shooting my wall again young man, then inquiring after John because the poor lad hasn't been home all day and most of yesterday too. Still with Sarah, no doubt. Sherlock was bitter as he thought of Sarah because she would be so upset and Sherlock hoped she wouldn't come running to him for memorial discussions of John or any of that nonsense because he couldn't be dealing with ridiculous trivialities and stupid frivolities like that no matter how bad he feels about his actions. And then Mrs Hudson wondered if he'd seen John, and he didn't answer, muttering under breath that John won't be home no matter how many times you ask, idiotic woman. He hit his head a little harder as he said it and Mrs Hudson tutted at him, having not heard his words and saying he'll have a nasty bump if he continues to do that. John won't be happy when he returns because he'll have to deal with a mardy-arse Sherlock who's got a sore head, and it'll be his fault. Sherlock's glare, luckily, was enough to send her packing before Sherlock did something he'd regret. _Again_.

He hadn't meant to, if you stepped back and looked at it in a broad sense while trying to understand Sherlock's own admittedly slightly twisted view point. The day before, he had been bored, as usual, and had been cradling John's gun which John had failed to hide successfully from the detective for the third time. He had also been obscenely interested in seeing first-hand how precisely a bullet can shred internal organs from say a distance of four metres. Before then he'd just been bored and considering taking up a 'my cat has gone missing' case, but his imagination had warped that innocent plea for help into a beautifully murderous daydream, and he suspected the son which must exist from the cat-loving old lady had shot down his own father twenty years ago leading to a wonderful domino effect which all resulted in the deliberate misplacement of an elderly woman's fat, ginger cat the day before. The elderly woman, of course, has always suspected her son for her husband's untimely death, but has kept her tongue out of common decency and loyalty to her child. Now that Mr. Snuffles has gone missing, though, her patience has worn thin. That was, as they say, the final straw.

Then there came the pondering of how the father's inside would have looked had the bullet ripped through his chest in a slightly uneven but generally well-aimed shot from a distance of, and Sherlock had looked up to the front door as footsteps pounded up it, say about from Sherlock to his door, roughly.

Then, conveniently enough, John had bundled through in a babbling flurry of noise and self-mocking and excitement to be home and anticipation of solving another case with his flatmate, and Sherlock, mind still in the swirling grey mists of his ponderings, hadn't even thought. It was another experiment, founded by boredom, and he could ease said mind-numbing dullness by recreating the same scenario he was thinking about. It wasn't hard – find a body and shoot it. It was just luck that a live one had come in much like Sherlock's imaginary 'father' in his imaginary situation must had done when the son had shot him for no immediately obvious reason.

Sherlock studied the wound in the silence which had fallen after he'd pulled the trigger, fascinated and amazed by the accurate ideas which he'd made, coming to the conclusion he really was a genius, as if he hadn't already know. And Sherlock had then made the mistake of looking up into the face of his dummy. He scrunched his eyes up as his body forgot how to breathe for just a moment.

He'd known it was John as soon as John walked through the door, and he knew that John had just come back from Sarah's but realised Sherlock would probably have just sulked the day by and not considered nipping down to the shop to get milk and bread and whatever else John thought they absolutely needed even though no one ever used milk in this household. Sherlock just hadn't really noticed he was dead – actually _dead_ – until now. No more running over rooftops, no more messing up Lestrade's crime scenes, no more arguments and popping out for milk. At least, no more of that for John.

The milk in question had fallen heavily to the ground where John had dropped the plastic shopping bags when Sherlock had shot him in the chest, but it hadn't split open and poured all over the floor, ruining the carpet. Sherlock had watched it with some sort of distaste at not being stereotypically dramatic when John most deserved it to be. Everything that John bought, in fact, had been surrounded in tightly sealed plastic, possibly because there was still a human head in the fridge, and so nothing had served as a distraction for Sherlock to clean up, and forced him to think seriously about what he'd just done.

It didn't take long to plant fake evidence or work out solid alibis, saying John never made it home. Mrs Hudson was sleeping downstairs, but she knew Sherlock was sulking up in 221B and Lestrade wouldn't nurse the idea that Sherlock would have had the energy to go anywhere if he was in a sulk – certainly not extract the mental and physically energy which everyone assumed you needed if you were to kill someone. Not when you're a sociopath though, as he'd just killed John without even really noticing. Obviously, then, these damn slumps of his worked out well for him in the end to keep him out of trouble, even if they were bloody annoying for the most part.

The shopping John had bought was collected up and dropped off in an alleyway on the relatively short walk from the shops to Baker Street, and Sherlock felt it a job well done, as it would be presumed the doctor was jumped in an alley and dragged off to be killed elsewhere. If the idiot detectives of London couldn't deduce that then Sherlock himself certainly could. And because it was John, they'd take his word without as much as a brief hesitation. Because the victim was good old John Watson and the poor devil had lived with Sherlock for months now and smiled when Sherlock did something brilliant and morally supported Sherlock and helped him to his feet when Sherlock said something phenomenally not good. John was Sherlock's lifeline, and had become Sherlock's very being. That much was true, Sherlock supposed, but in his personal opinion that wasn't a good enough reason for them to believe that Sherlock wouldn't put a bullet to John's head (or, in this case, the inferior vena cava) if the urge took him. It seemed a bit stupid to think that John was immune from what other people might call Sherlock's mental instability, actually. But then again, that just might be another human 'not good' thing which Sherlock completely missed the point of in those long forgotten life lessons he almost suspected he had never been taught.

Sherlock knew what guilt was, but couldn't particularly remember the feel of it or how everyone else could carry it around on their shoulders so carelessly. John did especially, from the almighty guilt of the war to the second hand guilt of Harry's drinking to the more usual guilt of going against the law for Sherlock especially.

Even now, though, Sherlock had no real feeling towards what he had done – he was just experiencing the monotonous dullness that came with a world which didn't have an adoring, wonderful, friendly doctor in which to make Sherlock smile, and laugh, and overcome psychosomatic limps with before bursting into a fit of hysterical giggles at various crime scenes. He did feel melancholy for such times, and wished he had more to come, but he didn't, and that was the fact of it. The end. Nothing to get worked up over.

He was just irritated. Because he'd done something stupid and he never did anything stupid – he was Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes wasn't stupid. It was everybody else who was stupid. Yet, everyone else managed to not accidentally shoot their best friend to the death when they came in cheerful and smiling after a nice day, ready to cook (and possibly burn) dinner before they both headed out for a takeaway instead. In fact, they did it daily. How did other people manage that? Not even Mycroft had done something so ridiculous. Oh, for god's sake, Mycroft! Mycroft was a variable previously unaccounted for – the only person who could see when Sherlock was lying and would want a real explanation, even if he already knew what happened. Sherlock dreaded it already.

Whilst everything else was easy, like the alibi and the misdirection of the police, the really hard part of the plan came when Sherlock tried to dispose of the body. The actual disposing was a piece of cake, naturally, because he was smart and the rest of the human race didn't use their _eyes_ to see what was right in front of them. Most didn't look twice at Sherlock, never mind the curious pile of baggage he was carrying, so no one would remember or bother to question whether something suspicious was afoot. He was covered in that sense.

No, the hard part came when Sherlock was tittering on the embankment, not wanting to leave John there for long – just long enough to suggest he'd been dumped there carelessly in a shallow attempt to get rid of him for good. But Sherlock wanted him found – couldn't just leave his friend there to be swallowed up by the murky waters. Sherlock, instead, had posed John to rest on his shoulders so not to rouse any suspicion from the odd passers-by, and waited with him until morning.

When the morning came, he'd let John go and set it up so it was certain he'd be found before noon at least, before he returned home, and promptly started banging his head against the wall.

He didn't leave the house for the rest of the day, and everyone figured that he must have simply known on instinct that John was dead – after all, he could tell everything about everyone else on smaller hints and he always knew where John was anyway. Usually. No doubt they also presumed that he just couldn't bear the truth of the case – the fact his faithful little follower fellow was gone. Yes, they _could _go with that, and while they're at it they can also say he died from grief and obviously _not_ from the pure and simple exasperation he felt towards himself for letting urges take away the one good thing he had. They could all say that to themselves and agree when they find him slump on the floor, wall decorated with 'hint of brain'. Not a likely scenario, of course, but enough of a daydream to keep Sherlock going on living for now, even as he was pounding his head to a pulp on the wallpaper trying to die, while another day melted away and feelings of regret and sorrow would instinctively melt away with it.

* * *

End

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A/N: 'John' and 'Thames' go so well together, don't you think? A true romance. Expect more of it. I'm a horrible person, but what's life without grief and incorrect fondling of guns? Clever people shouldn't be allowed other people and guns at the same time.


End file.
